At Swiss Cottage Tube, Joyce was surprised to see it a model of cool and calm organisation. She was not the least bit surprisedto find Dore Silverman behind a trestle table in the ticket office foyer.
‘Joyce!’ he enthused. ‘You’ve brought guests. And judging by the look of you all, you’re in need of a bunk.’
‘I’m afraid so. But we don’t have a thing with us. We have all lost our ration books, our insurance documents, our clothes... and oh...’ The realisation suddenly hit her like a wrecking ball.
She’d lost everything. She didn’t have a pair of knickers to her name. The adrenaline had worn off, and she began to cry.
‘My dear child, none of that in my shelter,’ Dore said kindly. ‘I’m on the Civil Defence committee that oversees the running of the Tube as a shelter. We have a Citizens Advice Bureau visit the underground every Tuesday so we can get you all restored to the human race once more and get you replacement documents. The WVS are having a jumble sale on the eastbound platform this evening, so we can have you all looking respectable in no time. And I can allocate you all bunks next to one another.’
‘But our pets?’ Adela said, glancing at Library Cat and Missy.
‘What pets?’ Dore replied with a wink.
‘We don’t really know anyone down here,’ Mitsy said worriedly.
‘Madam, we have five hundred people sheltering here nightly, and I assure you, you’re never introduced to a stranger in wartime. Come, follow me.’
Then he was off, hopping onto the escalator.
The wooden escalator creaked them down into the gloom of the underground, all of them in stunned silence, but it didn’t seem to matter as Dore kept up his stream of bright chatter regardless.
‘I may be biased, ladies, but I am terribly proud of our underground shelter. We are small compared to the likes of Bethnal Green and St Pancras, but perfectly formed. There’s awonderful community down here, with many folk bombed out like yourself.’
He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve visited all the station shelters in London. Bethnal Green’s friendly enough but very large, eight thousand down there. St Pancras is – well – rough, to be frank, and Hampstead’s terribly reserved. But here at Swiss Cottage, we have all ages, from babies up to pensioners. We’re one big, happy family.’
Joyce found her thoughts wandering to where Harry slept.
‘There’re lots of ways to contribute once you’ve found your feet,’ Dore went on. ‘You can volunteer at the shelter café, for example. Word on the street is that a Shelter Welfare Council is forming for all the stations in the area to bring in entertainment, talks, arts and crafts, drama, singing and film shows. I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but I’ve even started an underground newspaper calledThe Swiss Cottager,so any wordsmiths amongst you, do feel free to contribute. I haven’t got my first issue out just yet, but it will be here soon!’
Joyce’s head spun at the incongruity of it all.
Dore led them past a painted arrow,To the Trains,and onto the eastbound platform. All along the platform edge, hugging into the curve of the cream-tiled wall, were metal three-tier bunks, with blankets neatly folded on each one. Some shelterers had clearly tried to make their bunks feel a little more like home, with personal belongings like books, knitting needles, slippers and, in one case, even a crochet wall hanging,Bless this home, attached to the line of green and brown slip tiles that ran the length of the platform.
‘The majority of shelterers vacate the station during the day, off to school, jobs, volunteering and so forth. Officially, you aren’t allowed to access the bunks until six thirty p.m. when...’
His voice was drowned out by a low rumble, followed by a blast of hot air.
Joyce, Mitsy and Adela stared in disbelief as a Bakerloo line Tube train slid into the station and disgorged passengers, who seemed utterly unfazed that the platform was lined with bunks.
‘... the majority of commuter Tube trains stop running until the morning. Officially, that’s the peacetime end of rush hour. But the schoolchildren start coming down from four p.m.’
He pointed to two white lines painted on the platform’s edge, one about eight feet back, the second four feet back.
‘Make sure not to step beyond the second white line until after six thirty p.m., unless you fancy being mowed down by a Tube train. After that, you can spread out to the first white line.’
Mitsy began to laugh, the colour returning to her cheeks. ‘Why, my dears, it reminds me of the night I slept underground at the Métro in Paris after I missed my last train.’ She turned to Dore. ‘Would you be a gem and show me to my bunk so I might lie down?’
‘It would be my honour, madam,’ Dore said, growing all twinkly as he held out his arm to a delighted Mitsy.
He led them up the station to the furthest edge, where the platform ended and the tunnel mouth opened like a choirboy’s mouth.
‘It’s more private up this end. I’ll put you here on the bottom bunk, Mrs Bouvoir. Joyce, you might like the middle and Adela, perhaps being the youngest and therefore the sprightliest, you can have the top bunk.’
He patted the bunk next to theirs.
‘Your direct neighbours are Lilley Richardson and Rosie Cohen. They were both bombed out of their homes in Willesden Green at the start of the Blitz. They love it here. In fact, they’re both threatening to carry on sleeping here after the war. You’ll meet them later.’
Missy the dog was sniffing at a box under their neighbour’s bunk.
